


Remembering Sunday

by SilentWinter



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Songfic, mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-10-24 21:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentWinter/pseuds/SilentWinter
Summary: “I don’t mean to be a bother, but have you seen this girl?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the song, “Remembering Sunday,” by All Time Low.

Steve woke with a jolt. It was the third time in two weeks that he’d done so. A third dream about _her_.

He rubbed his eyes as they fluttered open. Staring at the empty space next to him, he started the ritual. He traced the shape of her sleeping form, from her hair to her hips. He detailed her face down to the delicate eyelashes that would twitch as she slept.

This wasn’t anything new. It was a coping strategy that he’d used on a dozen or so missions when his anxiety seemed higher than usual. He would trace her features and feel better.

Except this time. This time, he didn’t feel better. She wouldn’t be waiting for him to return with that bright, knowing smile. She wouldn’t call or text just to check up on him. She was gone. She had been for weeks.

“Shit,” he hissed, rubbing his hand down his face before sitting up and hanging his head between his knees.

Wouldn’t the world get a good laugh at this? The fearless and strong Captain America sulking at 1am in a pair of polyester sweatpants?

He let out a dark laugh and stood up, knowing he wouldn’t be going back to sleep. He looked at his dresser, barely able to distinguish the crumpled ball of paper on top. In it, a short, hand-written note. _Be back soon_. Steve has assumed she’d gone out for coffee or a walk and would be back any moment.

And then, she wasn’t.

It was a bit of a mystery, actually. 

When they’d first met, he was taken aback by her beauty and unbridled spirit. She’d brushed past him at the sandwich shop, impatient with his and Bucky’s indecisiveness.

_“Captain America or not,” she’d snapped, “some of us have shit to do.” With that, she spun around, her hair whipping dramatically over her shoulder and ordered._

It was Bucky’s idea to approach her, despite her visible annoyance. Steve was glad he did, for her prickly demeanor softened with a peace offering of a slice of cheesecake and a deli pickle. She’d even invited them to eat with her.

From that moment on, all Steve wanted was to be with her. She was fine with that - on one condition: in no uncertain terms, Steve was not even to consider himself in love with her. She didn’t “do” that.

Every moment possible, he was with her. She would laugh at his ignorance to current pop culture, then educate him. They’d cook together, spending lazy days eating and watching movies.

When he left on a mission, she’d miss him, but would never dare say it.

She loved him; he knew it. But she’d never say that either.

So, he took a chance.

Those three words rolled off of his tongue naturally, punctuated only by the perfect setting of getting ready for bed. His stomach dropped when he did it, nervously twisting as he waited. It dropped even further when she looked up at him with a mixture of fear and anger shading her face. Without a word, she left the room and went to bed.

He called her bluff. And lost.

Leaning against the bed frame, he sighed. Since he was pulled from the ice, issues were sleep weren’t new. Luckily for him, the serum kept him from feeling too tired. She called it his “Super-Soldier-Second-Wind.”

She always came up with cute names for his quirks.

“I need a walk,” he grunted into the darkness, strengthening his resolve to leave the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

When Steve walked out into the living room, he was surprised to see it illuminated by the end credits of a movie. Sam and Bucky were sitting on the couches, retreated in a hushed conversation that stopped the moment they heard him come in. “Can’t sleep, man?” Sam asked, trying to hide the fact that they were just talking about him.

“What’s going on?” he asked, glaring pointedly between his two friends.

Bucky shook his head, “You can’t go back out there, Steve. This is getting crazy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Steve said, eyeing his shoes laying near the door. “I need to go to the store.”

“At 2 o’clock in the morning?” Sam deadpanned, “Every damn Sunday?”

“Yeah, I forgot to grab something earlier and I just remembered that I needed that thing … so here I go,” he lied, gesturing to the door. It was a stupid lie; one that clearly held no merit, but his friends resigned, shrugging as he walked out the door.

Like the soul-crushing dreams, these late-night walks weren’t anything new either. He always walked the same hour-long route: a roundabout way that took him down her street where he could innocently pass her apartment complex. Every time he did, he couldn’t help but look at her window. Sometimes, the light would be on, letting him know that she was safe.

But it wasn’t on tonight. It was 3:20 AM.

His mind wandered, only being brought back to the present with the pattering of rain on his forehead. He scolded himself for not bringing a jacket or a sweatshirt.

_“Bring a hoodie,” she advised, “it could rain and you’d look pathetic.”_ Even though she'd end up stealing it if it didn't rain, he took her advice. Partially because it was a smart decision and partially because she looked downright adorable swimming in his sweatshirt. 

He laughed to himself, letting the rain soak his shirt as he looked back up at her window. For a second, he thought he’d seen the light flicker. It wasn’t one of those accidental light flickers, but the kind that happened when a lamp fell over and the bulb shattered. It spelled one thing for him: danger.

Panicked, he jumped over the wrought-iron gate and ran to the front door, hastily buzzing her apartment number. 

No answer.

He tried again. And again. And one more time, for good measure. Each ending the same silent way, searing a thousand terrible thoughts about what may have happened to her. 

So, he tried a neighbor. Then, another. And another.

Finally, he was let in. He figured he could pull the I’m-Captain-America-and-I-have-to-save-someone card. He didn’t use it often, but this seemed as good a time as any.

Skipping stairs in his ascent, he clumsily made it to her door. After a few furious knocks, he realized that, if she was actually in danger, she wouldn’t answer. Hissing a cuss word, he let his fist slam into the door one last time, leaving a bowl-sized dent in its metal surface.

He turned quickly on his heels, scanning the hallway for any signs of life. Surely, if these people worked as hard as she had told him, they’d be awake at any moment. With a sinking feeling, he started knocking on the doors of other tenants. He roused Mrs. Trotsky, an elderly woman with Emphysema. Then, Alexis, whose husband worked late nights at a canning factory and had just gotten home. Mr. Boyd. Carl. Anyone.

No one had seen her.

Defeated, he went back to her door and sat down, quickly devising a plan. He _could_ just wait there in the hallway and she could come out, less than enthused at his uninvited appearance. He _could_ stand outside of her window and wait for a sign of movement. He _could_ kick the door down – but, if she was okay, she would be even less enthused at the fact that he’d just kicked her door in and would probably cuss him out over the fact that she would have to pay for a new door. He could get Stark to –

“She moved,” a voice said from a few doors down.

Scrambling to his feet, Steve moved in the direction of the voice. “What did you say?”  
Standing in the doorway of his own apartment, wild-haired and bleary-eyed, was Dex. Dex was a guitarist in a local band that was still waiting to ‘make it big.’ He cleared his throat, speaking louder and more condescending than before, “She moved. Doesn’t live there anymore.” He was speaking as though Steve didn't speak English, which made him want to punch him in the face.

“How do you –”

“Saw her leave,” Dex said with a yawn. “Figured I’d tell you since you woke the whole fuckin’ floor and somebody’s bound to call the cops.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, “Where’d she go?”

Dex shrugged, “I don’t fuckin’ know, man. She didn’t leave a forwarding address.” He began to close the door. “’S a shame. She was hot.” 

Steve pursed his lips and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his fingers gently brushing the ring that he made the last-minute decision to grab before leaving his bedroom that night. He frequently carried it with him, even after her departure. 

Yeah, he wanted to marry her, even though she hadn’t so much as said that he loved him. Wasn’t that the main requirement of marrying someone for the rest of your life? Weren’t they supposed to love you? Then again, she had made him watch so many episodes of shows like _The Bachelor_ and other shitty reality dating shows that it had probably taken a toll on his brain. The ring meant the world to him – almost as much as she did. 

He heard the door click shut, leaving Steve alone in the hallway. Slightly embarrassed, he sunk to the floor, hanging his head. He looked to the stairway, inundated with memories.  
She’d led him up those same stairs a week after they’d met. She introduced him to the neighbors and each time she did, he had to release her hand that was clutching his so tightly. He never understood why she made such a big deal of it all. But he’d never forget how she introduced him as “Steve” and not “Captain America.”

In fact, his being Captain America was never mentioned other than in private when he did something that annoyed her. Like when they’d sit down to eat together and he’d managed to put down a full serving of his food before she’d even gotten halfway through hers. She hated it at first, since he’d just sit there waiting until she finished, but eventually accepted it. She even started giving him half of her food, just to watch him scarf it down with that smug smirk that he’d grown to love.

Just as she’d grown to love him – so he thought.

He chuckled to himself, remembering those moments. How insignificant they were at the time! Realizing that he was still in that hallway and it was four in the morning, he stood up and left.

It was raining even harder on the way home. He walked past the park, where they spent many nights laying under the stars for hours. He could hear the sound of their shared laughter as he passed the hill she’d claim as their own every time they went there.

_“Do you think that if we died here, like this, they’d find us quickly? Or would they take their time?” she asked before bursting into laughter. “Let’s be real here, no one would let Captain America die in the grass of a non-distinct park near the bay.”_

_He turned to look at her, studying her expression. It was as though she was waiting for him to say the right or wrong thing. “If I got to die here, next to you, just like this,” he began, “I wouldn’t really care.” He remembered the sole condition of their relationship. She only hummed in response, shifting to get closer to him._

He passed the boat dock, where she’d stripped down and jumped in. _"If you're so brave, why are you so afraid of breaking the rules?" she teased, splashing him with a handful of water and algae that made him want to gag._ He joined her without fear because she made him feel that way: fearless.

And yet, here he was, desperately seeking her out like a child whose parents had hidden his security blanket and there was a raging thunderstorm outside. 

Suddenly, his phone rang in his pocket, lurching him from his thoughts.

It was her. Her name and smiling face lit up his screen and his stomach fluttered. He remembered taking that picture after Sam had said something that made her laugh. She was calling him.

Clearing his throat and trying to sound as though he'd just woken up, he answered, “Hello?”

“Are you fucking insane?” she hissed quietly. He could hear cars rushing past in the background. “Like, actually insane?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked flatly, looking around to see if she may have been watching from across the street. 

“You woke up my old neighbors looking for me?” When he didn’t respond, she continued, “It’s been two months, Steve –”

“58 days,” he corrected. “I thought something happened to you. You left without saying anything to me, doll –"

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “You can’t.”

He sighed, “I think I reserve the right to call you anything I want at this point.”

She was quiet for a moment before letting out a deep sigh. “It’s over, Steve. I’m not coming back. And I need you to accept that – and go home.”

“Will you at least tell me where you are?” he asked stupidly. If he really wanted to, he could probably track her down.

“No. You have to move on. I’ve done things that I can’t come back from.”

“Will you at least tell me what you did?”

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I shouldn’t have let you fall in love with me.”

“But you did,” he said, his voice sounding less casual and more professional. It felt like he was correcting someone at work. “And you loved me, too.”

“I don’t do that, Steve. It told you,” she replied quietly. “Go home, forget about me – starting tomorrow, you’re gonna forget me, okay? And we’re gonna leave it like that.”

It was a battle he wouldn’t win.

“Okay,” he relented, “tomorrow. But today? I love you and I want you to come home.” He sighed, “Home to me and whatever you did, we can fix it.”

“Dammit, Steve! I slept with other people, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? Can you fix that?” she shouted. “I had one rule. One! And you fucked that up, so here we are.”

Without anything left to say, she hung up, leaving him standing outside of the Tower with his phone wetly plastered to the side of his face. He sighed, figuring that hearing her say all of that was what he needed more than he needed her. Accepting defeat, he walked back inside.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve hadn’t dreamt about her since that night. Following her orders, he threw himself into anything and everything he could to forget about her. Sure, he had his moments, but they were few and far between now. (Aside from a brief scuffle with both Sam and Bucky over the possibility that one of them were the “other people” she had mentioned, he was doing fine. Spoiler alert: neither of them were). He stopped carrying the ring. He changed the route he walked. He went on a mission or two.

Yes, Steve Rogers was moving on.

 ** _“Captain Rogers?”_** FRIDAY said suddenly

Tearing himself from his sketchpad, he rolled his eyes before responding. “Yes?”

**_“You have a visitor outside.”_ **

“No press today,” he grunted. “It’s Sunday.”

**_“She’s not press, sir.”_ **

“If it’s Sharon, send her up.” He closed his sketchpad and tossed his pencil aside, annoyed at the premise of a surprise visit from a girl he hadn’t called back. At least he’d get laid.

**_“It’s not Agent Carter, sir.”_ **

Visibly annoyed, he stretched backwards across the bed. “Then, who is it?”

**_“She won’t respond to me. She only asked for you.”_ **

Raising a brow, he sat up. “Run the video feed from downstairs.” As soon as the screen flickered on, the breath he was about to exhale was caught in his throat as he stood up quickly. Projected in front of him was her face. The face he’d only just stopped tracing at night. Tears streaked down her face pained face. Pained. Or nervous. Or angry. 

Quickly zipping his jacket and checking himself in the mirror, he rushed out of his room. His mind raced with questions and concerns as he took the stairs to buy himself some time.

Why had she come? What, on God’s green Earth, could have possibly happened that she would end up in the lobby of the Tower looking for him? Did he call her again in his sleep?

He flung the door open, sending it into the wall and startling her. He stood there frozen in place as she did the same. He could hear his pulse in his ears.

She was beautiful, like always. A light denim jacket over a suede skirt and thigh high boots. Her hair fell down her back, gently caressing her shoulders. A nervous smile pressed itself to her lips. “Hi,” she said quietly.

“Hi.”

Neither of them moved. 

“I rehearsed this a thousand times for the last 68 days and I forgot everything I wanted to say,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“That it?” he asked coldly. When she didn’t move or speak, he stepped backwards toward the door, shaking his head in disbelief. She had a lot of nerve showing up like this, incoherently babbling like they were in one of those stupid romantic comedies she’d put on solely for the sake of laughing at them.

Her voice quivered, “Sam called me.”

Casting a sideways glance at the door and counting the seconds it would take to go back up to his room. Perhaps he’d take the elevator – no, then he’d have to wait for it to come all the way down and be stuck there with her. “And you answered? Shocking.”

“He said you went on a date or two,” she continued, her voice more reserved than he’d ever heard it. “I-I’m happy that you did.”

Turning slowly to look at her, he shrugged, “He call you a lot?”

She nodded once in confirmation. “We’re friends.”

“So, you came here to ask me how my date went?” he asked slowly. “You could’ve called – wait, I forgot, you don’t know how to use the phone.”

“Was it Sharon?” she asked curiously, “I remember her. She’s really pretty. And fierce as hell. And good for you.”

“Thanks for your approval,” he deadpanned. He glanced at her shrinking into herself. “Why are you really here?”

“I-I was in the neighborhood and, well, no, I wasn’t. I just got off a flight from Philadelphia. I moved there –”

“Good for you.”

She let out a nervous laugh, “Yeah, I was unpacking and I found these.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a set of old dogtags. His old dogtags. “And I thought maybe you’d want them … to give to her.” She closed the distance between them and held them out to him. “Here, take them.”

When he didn’t reach for them, she grabbed his hand and closed his fingers around them. He felt something strange when she did that, like bile in his throat but a simultaneous flutter in his stomach. He wanted her to keep them; she knew that. When she saw them hanging on the edge of his bed, she was so excited by their age and authenticity, spurring a long conversation about times that no one really asked him about anymore. So, he gave them to her, thinking that they’d never be far away.

“Well, that’s it,” she breathed, pulling him from his thoughts. “I should go.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. He turned toward the door and listened for her to start walking away. But she didn’t. “Anything else?” he asked, turning around.

“It’s Sunday.”

“That it is.”

An awkward silence fell between them. The two of them staring at each other, waiting to see who would make the next move. Suddenly, she started to cry. “Steve?”

Resisting the urge to run to her and hold her as he always had, he swallowed hard. “Hmm?”

“It’s Sunday,” she repeated. There was something in her voice, but Steve couldn’t decipher it.

Then, it hit him all at once. They’d met on a Sunday. Every Sunday, both at its beginning and its end, she’d tell him that it was Sunday and kiss him. She left on a Friday, clearly fleeing what had become her weekly tradition. But between the first and last Sundays of their time together, she never forgot to mention it; not over breakfast, not during a movie, not after they’d finished making love. Never.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say it out loud.”

She cried harder. “It’s been 70 days. 10 Sundays. And,” she trailed off.

Stunned, Steve studied her again, searching for the catch. A girl who had cheated on a long-term quasi-boyfriend wouldn’t get on a plane to give him a calendar update. “But?” he asked, prompting her to speak again

“Nothing. That’s what I came here to tell you: it’s Sunday.”

Instinctively, he strode toward her and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her into him. “I’m not letting you go until you say it.”

She looked up at him with glassy eyes. “I lied,” she squeaked, “I could never hurt you like that. And I could never hurt you like that because I’m in love with you, Steve.” The words tumbled from her mouth like the final riffs of a song that he’d listened to on repeat, but had restarted before hearing its very end. “I love you, Steven Grant Rogers.”

Without another word, he kissed her, desperately hoping it wasn’t a trick. She pressed into him as though they could get any closer. Between the salty taste of her tears and lipstick, he could only think of one thing.

He pulled away, moving her hair from her face and lifting her chin to look at him. “Marry me.”

She nodded furiously, “Yes. Okay. Yep. Yes. Okay.”

He let out a genuine laugh for the first time in months and kissed her forehead. “I wasn’t giving you another option. You no longer get to have those.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “I think I can live with that,” she sighed. “I love you.”

“I love you.”


End file.
